


if i lay here

by rubycrowned



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycrowned/pseuds/rubycrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>time is linear.<br/>it has a beginning.<br/>it has an end.</p>
<p>and harry and louis' lines cross more than once over their length of rope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if i lay here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [transgenicveins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/transgenicveins/gifts).



> au oneshot.
> 
> this hit me when i was trying to write a /completely/ different fic (it wasn't even this fandom), and i've been typing like a madwoman for the past five days.
> 
> NOTE: POSSIBLE TRIGGERS - allusions to suicide
> 
> thank you madi for being a total babe about this, and helping beta the first two-thirds. and thank you cat, sharon, rhee and lorraine for not killing me when i sent them snippets and refused to elaborate.

time is linear.

there is a beginning.

there is an end.

that doesn't mean it's a direct and predictable line from a to b, from birth to death, gain to loss.

it's a wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey ball of tangled yarn, tangled and knotted by some cosmic kitten who either doesn't realise what a mess she's making in amongst her fun, or just doesn't care.

we're all on the line, and we can't get off. we can't change direction, or leap forward to a clear stretch where everything makes sense.

but sometimes the string loops so closely to our past (present, future) that it's almost tangible. that we might nearly be able to reach out and touch it.

sometimes we recognise the relevance, and it's like coming home.

sometimes we don't, and it sits in our stomachs, on our chests, pounding through our hearts; heavy and just this side of uncomfortable. or in that corner of our mind, flitting just out of reach. but we know it's important. that we need to _remember. this. moment_.

we try to catch hold of it, grasp on, anchor ourselves in the threads which are made up of content, if not happiness.

we lose ourselves in that struggle and end up forgetting the first rule, missing some of the best bits because we forget that we

can't

stop.

***

no two lengths of time are the same.

some are strong and secure, withstanding whatever force may be struck against it.

others are stretched thin and fragile; fraying and ready to snap.

***

***

is it _really_ so bad for louis to wish that, for once, whatever fate controls his joke of a life could just- let him have a break.

he wakes up in the morning and his bed's still empty, his house still silent, and cold january rain slaps against the window.

his snooze alarm bleeps, echoing artificial and harsh, reminding louis - as he forces himself to breathe, to continue moving - that no matter what else happens to him, time keeps marching painfully on.

***

***

some are worn and held lovingly together with knot after knot from further down the string.

many are periods of time we hold fond in our hearts and revisit again and again with rose-tinted hindsight; memories we wax nostalgic over, or fervently wish we could go back to.

(there are also the ones that are more a recurring nightmare; that we wish we could forget but continue to haunt our steps, over and over)

***

***

louis and harry meet (the first time) when louis is eight - eyes bright and knees and elbows constantly a varying timeline of skinned, bruised, scabbed, never learning how to slow down or to look before he leaps.

harry is six with huge green eyes, shining with tears, the only thing visible damn near beneath a horrific nest of brown curls and a backpack nearly the size of the boy carrying it.

louis probably would have walked right past the tiny figure on the bridge if he hadn't heard him sniffle just as he sidesteps the kid. and louis' mum might've thrown her hands up in despair at louis' apparent lack of manners more than once (this week), but he can't just ignore a crying kid, can he?

the curly-headed thing looks up at him warily, but points out the furby which had (somehow) managed to make it over the side of the bridge and landed on the grassy bank, less than a foot from the water.

it's only a creek, a small thing with barely a cursory bridge where the town's main road passes over it. there are stock fences running either side to prevent anyone careless enough to fall down the banks and break a limb on the rocks scattered among the shallow waters. they aren't exactly enough to keep louis out, though; and he's convinced the banks aren't that steep - not enough to stop him saving this kid from a world of hurt from his sister for losing her brand new toy.

actually climbing down is perhaps harder than louis had anticipated, but there are lots of long grasses for him to secure his fists around, and it doesn't take him too long before he holds up the furby with a crow of victory and the curly-headed kid clapping from the bridge; tears dried and a wide-mouthed grin showing off teeth that are, as yet, too big for his mouth.

louis scrambles back up faster than his descent, eager to officially hand over the toy and announce himself hero of the day. he's sufficiently careless in his haste that he cuts his hand on the barbed wire when he clambers back over the fence; it's deep enough that he has to dig out his discarded jumper from his backpack and wrap it around his palm to stop the bleeding. he doesn't drip any on the furby though.

"thanks," the kid tells him, wrapping his arms around louis' waist in a way that is unexpected but which louis tells himself he probably deserves, "gem would've given me a chinese burn for sure if i'd lost frankie."

"ow," louis winces sympathetically; stan had given him one the time they'd both gotten in trouble because louis had been bouncing on his bed and one of the slats had broken.

"that's frankie?" he points at the toy now tucked securely under the kid's arm, still making whirring mechanical chirps into his t-shirt.

the kid nods, curls bouncing all over the place.

"and gem is your sister?"

another nod.

"so what's your name then, curly?"

"oh," the kid uses his free hand to push his hair out of his face and then awkwardly sticks his arm out towards louis, as if it's something he's seen other people do in situations like this. "'m harry."

"louis," and louis grabs harry's hand but instead of shaking it, turns it into a peaknuckle war, making harry giggle uncontrollably and call forfeit after several seconds.

 "i also answer to 'the great tommo' though," louis tells him seriously when harry recovers his breath.

harry has to turn at the next corner to get to his house, a couple blocks before louis', but asks shyly if louis would maybe meet him at the park that saturday, after footie. louis' pretty sure stan will laugh at him for hanging out with such a little kid, but it makes him feel happy when harry laughs at something because of louis, so he finds himself nodding, _yes_.

his mum goes nuts at him for cutting his hand (he'd almost forgotten it on the way home but, now that she’s poked at it, it really does hurt a lot), although she decides it's not quite bad enough to need stitches. instead she forces him to sit through her dousing it in antiseptic and placing a big brown bandage on it that isn't _nearly_ as fun as the scooby-doo ones he usually gets, but makes it look far more impressive, louis thinks.

(when louis' family moves six months later, and he has to say goodbye to harry, louis spends the whole car ride rubbing his fingers over the silvered scar on his palm and trying not to cry)

***

harry is thirty-five; louis thirty-seven.

his hair is beginning to be flecked with grey, moreso than louis' has so far. louis wonders whether he's overly defensive about it, if he will dye his hair for the first time in his life in an effort to hold back the speeding clock; or if he is as accepting of this as he has been of most everything else, if it rolls off him with an easy grin and incredible genes which mean he still looks as fit as he did tenfifteentwenty years ago.

louis wonders what it would be like to be privy to that knowledge.

he only watches him for a moment, stood with a disposable cup of rapidly cooling tea on the opposite side of the pedestrian-filled street.

it makes him shake his head that, even now, he can still pick harry's frame out among hundreds ( _thousands_ ) in a moment.

harry has his head down, hunched against the frigid winter wind in a peacoat which hasn't been in style since their late-teens, but still looks as though it was made with the sole purpose of being worn by him. louis half expects there to be a low hung beanie barely maintaining purchase on harry's head; but no, they aren't twenty anymore. time doesn't allow do-overs; there are no second chances.

louis thinks that – maybe – if harry had only looked up, louis would be next to him in a heartbeat. that is, if his face hadn't been filled with disgust, or worse, indifference, and louis didn't have to think about the last time this had happened.

but harry's head stays down.

people continue moving between them until not even harry's curls can be made out in the crowd.

louis takes his lukewarm tea and heads in the opposite direction to work, head and heart heavy with time past (time lost and time wasted).

***

when louis turns sixteen, stan sneaks a bottle of foul-tasting liqueur up to doncaster from his parents’ cabinet back home, and they do shots in louis' bedroom before catching the bus into the centre of town to see the new will smith film while everyone else bustles past them, laden with last-minute christmas purchases.

they're just attempting to stumble onto the escalator at the mall without braining themselves when a voice louis doesn't recognise speaks, barely louder than if they were talking to themselves,  from somewhere behind them.

"louis?"

louis might not be the most common of names, but there isn't really any reason for him to turn around, to scan the faces for someone familiar. when he does, though, the voice returns; more certain, more excited than the first.

"louis!"

he spots him ten metres away, pushed and turned by the determined masses between them, still not quite grown into that beaming grin, hair barely contained with the orange and white beanie with a pom-pom sticking up from the top.

_eight years_ , louis' mind blinks at him; he must be almost fourteen now. still that little creature that had followed louis around for those glorious six months when louis had almost believed he really could be a superhero. at least to harry.

louis doesn't know why he's here, who he's with, whether this means he's living nearby, or if it's just the fluke of the century. he doesn't know, but he kind of wants to turn right now and demand the answers, demand to know where harry had been the past eight years when louis  needed his friend, regardless of harry having even less ability than louis had possessed, at the tender age of six, to command that his parents maintain their contact.

But louis’ reflexes are slowed by alcohol, making him hesitate. and then a large woman with a tote-sized handbag over one shoulder, half-a-dozen shopping bags hanging from the other, and the face of a drill sergeant, prods him and stan onto the escalator, blocking his view of the crowd, shrinking as they travel to the mall's upper level.

when they (just) manage to keep their balance stepping off at the top, louis cranes his neck to try find harry, hoping to catch a glimpse of that ridiculous orange monstrosity, but stan is tugging him towards the cinema; they're running late as it is, and they have to wind and weave through the entire population of doncaster it seems to make it to the theatre gates.

louis half expects harry to walk in for the entire first half of the film; barely paying attention to the first twenty minutes in case he misses harry's entrance.

when his chest tightens uncomfortably at the end of the movie, it's definitely because will smith sacrificed himself.

definitely that.

***

it's tuesday.

louis has never liked tuesdays - he's already had to struggle through monday and yet it still feels as though there is an eternity before the weekend - but when louis is twenty-four and wakes up next to a twenty-two year old harry, even tuesdays seem bearable.

it's not a tuesday of any particular significance. he doesn't have any important meetings, harry has no concerts, no exams; it's not a birthday, or an anniversary; zayn and liam aren't coming to stay with them until the end of the month.

it's not a special tuesday, but it sticks in louis' mind for some reason.

he slides out of bed after shutting off his third alarm almost before it can start up again, careful to jostle harry as little as possible, even if he does sleep like a clingy log, making such an effort near impossible; louis might have to be at work by eight, but harry doesn't have class until eleven this morning and he deserves a lie in.

his conditioner's run out in the shower, but harry won't miss it if louis nicks some; the possessive part of him that harry pretends doesn't exist will like that louis smells like him. he reminds himself that they really do need to go grocery shopping tonight. after spending the weekend with louis' mum, they'd put off minor things like supermarkets  in favour of sucking each other off on the couch before they could reach the bedroom for round two; decisions which come after two nights of cramming into the single bed of louis' old room and sharing a wall with his younger sister.

two pieces of dry toast are shoved into his mouth as he hurries out the door, trying not to drop them as he locks the door behind him and takes the stairs at a sprint to catch his train on time.

work is the same banality as usual; meetings, a couple press releases, accompanying a senior colleague to a contract signing with a new client. louis mostly lets this fade into the blur of all the other days he spends at work - nothing ever happens to really maintain his interest (and maybe that says something about what he's doing with himself, hardly the passionate career he'd imagined himself to end up in).

harry is cooking dinner when louis walks back into the flat that night. well. by cooking, he's reheating the chinese takeout from last night and shoving a chocolate self-steaming pudding into the oven because they still haven't done that grocery run (but when harry styles' kitchen runs out of baking ingredients, the apocolypse will indeed be nigh).

they eat in front of the telly, idly discussing their days as they half-watch reruns of some mediocre american sitcom.

harry kisses him awake from his dozing state when louis starts falling asleep part-way through an old mythbusters episode. he gently drags him to his feet and down the short hallway to the bathroom, handing him his toothbrush, already loaded with toothpaste.

louis' marginally more conscious by the time they've stripped off and climbed under the covers. louis takes his glasses off and sits them on his bedside cabinet, while harry does the same with his array of chains and pendants.

and he's still bordering on unconsciousness right now, but he's also pretty sure that harry wouldn't mind a fuck to set him off into a deep and sated sleep (and louis _did_ have to forego his morning quickie when he stayed in bed for those extra ten minutes this morning), so he squirms a hand between them when harry wraps them in their default embrace, throwing a leg over harry's hip.

harry accepts the kisses louis peppers up his neck and along his jaw 'til he finds harry's lips; he licks into louis' mouth slow and sweet. familiar.

but although his dick twitches with interest when louis gets a hand wrapped around him, harry knocks his fingers away, intertwining them with his own as he hums, satisfied, into louis' mouth.

"sleep now, lou."

"but-" louis' voice may be a little slurred with sleep; he'll deny it to the death, though.

harry's not even looking at him anymore, eyes fallen closed and a small smile on his face when louis pulls back enough millimetres to see his face in the dim light.

"sleep. wake me in the morning. i have that paper to write; i'll make us breakfast before you leave."

that's what this is, louis thinks to himself as he tucks his head back into his pillow of harry's chest.

this is what happy is.

***

***

there are certain parts of the line which are thicker than others; we take them for granted, don't realise how good we have it until the threads have already begun to fray.

here, we might slow down and breathe for a moment, let time lead us as she sees fit.

here is stability, here is time we don't realise is passing us by.

here is where we will wish later we could have stopped.

***

***

this time.

this time everything feels as though it is locked into place.

this time louis is twenty, halfway through a journalism degree. he's still moving faster than those around him, spinning bright even when he feels like he's stumbling slow, but he's not so carelessly breakneck as the kid with the scabby knees. half of him has fallen into the slots of who he's gradually discovering himself to be, someone he has mixed feelings on, but feels comfortable with on the whole. the other half is still trying to wedge itself into some other person's character, with varying results.

this time, harry is eighteen, finally let loose on the world, and finds himself at university. and by _finds_ , he physically ends up at university studying something vague and arts related, nothing quite defined just yet. because, as far as finding “himself” goes (and he's always rolled his eyes and mentally added the inverted commas because, really), harry has never really lost himself in the first place, as far as he can tell. he's not impervious to self-doubt, but he has never let it cripple him; he's always found some truth within him that he can hold onto, help him know the answer.

this time, it's how they think it was always meant to be.

***

louis falls for him.

as in. literally would have fallen flat on his face if someone hadn't caught him when he tripped over his own goddamn laces (and yeah, okay, he needs to learn that laces really _should_ be tied up before he leaves the flat even if he _is_ running late - twenty seconds may actually be life or death in his sleep-deprived state). a someone whose skin-tight black jeans are attached to extremely long legs, and an even longer (is that even possible), lean torso before it morphs into a face which-

"i always knew you'd grow into that mouth."

"louis?"

"haz." the long since swept-under-the-rug nickname falls effortlessly from louis' lips, and it sounds like relief of all things. _feels_ like relief when harry wraps him in a long-limbed hug and, really, this shouldn't take louis back twelve years, because louis is a foot shorter where he used to be a foot taller, and harry smells like aftershave rather than fruit roll-ups and- louis doesn't even know this person.

but harry hugs him, and louis leans into it, and it's like louis had never moved away all those years ago.

***

"you know, i looked for you for half an hour after you disappeared that time in the mall."

"i kept waiting for you to find me, looking up every time someone came into the cinema."

"i went to the park every saturday afternoon after footie for a year, hoping you'd show; until i'd almost forgotten why i was there."

"just after i turned nine, mum almost broke her ankle trying to get out of the house fast enough to stop me from taking the car out the driveway to go find you."

"shit, lou; you could've died!"

"eh," louis shrugs, learning the lines of harry's body as they lie on the floor of louis' flat, sharing a bag of crisps; it takes him a while to meet harry's eyes, which watch him, with fond concern for past-louis softening them. "if they wouldn't take me to see my harry, i had to go do it myself."

***

they fall back into friendship like they had never been pulled out of it.

the age gap is of even less significance than they'd considered it as children; even if louis and his lads did rib on harry for being a fresher and all the allegations associated with that.

'the lads' latch onto harry almost as quickly as louis does, become enamoured with him almost as rapidly as harry does with them.

they consist of zayn and liam, who will always be lumped together in louis’ mind; a two-for-one deal that would sicken you if they didn't actually match each other in rises and falls and make the world seem just a little more _right_. they live with louis, although only one of them is written into the lease; louis forgets who (it's zayn, who louis' known since highschool, when he wore too much leather and smoked too many cigarettes (he still wears too much leather and smokes too many cigarettes, but now liam is there to join louis in poking fun, or to tell them both off when they get caught out on their matchbox balcony sneaking a smoke), but louis feigns memory loss because it gives him leverage to guilt baking out of liam).

it also includes niall, and louis isn't exactly sure how he inducted himself into their little stronghold - liam brought him back to the flat one afternoon and he just never left (he's pretty sure he had a key cut for himself less than a month later). louis' pretty sure he still lives with a couple of guys he'd dormed with in first year, but it's across the other side of campus and, at this point, there's a niall-shaped dip carved into their sofa cushions and, since niall's more than willing to contribute to the weekly food shop (thank god, since he eats the equivalent of himself and zayn combined), louis doesn't mind stumbling from his room four or more mornings a week to find niall snoring, muffled by his nest of blankets.

and harry seems to fall into this dynamic seamlessly; louis doesn't deny it's a little surreal.

one day it's the four of them crammed into their one beat-up settee playing crash nitro kart on louis' old ps2 and waiting for the pizza guy.

the same time next week and harry's telling them through a mouthful of brownie how much better their kitchen is than his floor's communal kitchenette - even if the front ring on the stove doesn't have any temperature control - as he shoves four pairs of shoes off the worn coffee table and sets a still-warm plateful in front of them. he shakes his hair obnoxiously and grins back at them when louis and zayn start hollering that he's in the road of their game of the newest call of duty; liam rubs zayn's thigh consolingly, smirking back at harry, while niall shovels one square of brownie into his mouth and stacks another two in his hand to save on return trips, mumbling something about "you have to marry this one, louis, i'm not giving these up."

louis maybe flushes a little (their small flat got pretty hot with five guys crammed into it, okay - student-standard heating or not), but he's still trying to _not get shot_ , so he refuses to pay much mind to it. harry only guffaws in a loud boom that louis wouldn't have thought could ever come from the wee kid in his memory.

harry falls into place, snug against them all, without any of them realising they'd shifted to make room.

***

eventually, they fall into each other.

eventually, but it takes time (moving moving always moving).

harry is louis' friend.

the kid that would sit on the sideline of the pitch, legs tucked under him as he watched and waited for louis to get off footy practice so he could teach harry how to do a perfect jump off of the swings.

the one louis feels guilty over now, for not missing more, for letting slip into the shadows of the past as time wore on and not chasing after him; because now he _knows_ what he's been missing.

the man-child that winds up in louis' bed increasingly often, because it's dark and cold and wet on octoberjanuaryapril _all_ nights in england, and it's not always worth walking fifteen minutes out in that weather to get to his hall; not when louis has half a bed harry can tuck his long limbs into (which always turns into three-quarters because harry is a fucking army colonel when he's asleep, with his ability to conquer the mattress), the one space left in the flat.

there are jokes for months, maybe always, about how close harry and louis are. it doesn't faze either of them, not really. harry has always been affectionate. louis' always let him be. why should they change?

until one night when all five have drunk more than is probably wise for a tuesday (and tonight harry likely wouldn't even notice the cold if the boys would actually let him out of their sight). none of them are really out of it, but they're all well and truly buzzing.

and harry falls into his usual spot, tugging the blankets up until they’re tucked up under his chin, happy smile in place as he watches louis do the same on the other side of the bed.

and in the orange light from the streetlamp outside, it strikes louis a little dumb. how absolutely beautiful harry is.

it's not as if it's something he's been oblivious to up until now - he has _eyes_ \- but-

he'd never realised how stunning he was; in every little thing harry is.

so he kisses him.

maybe louis falls, but he's too busy memorising harry to notice.

***

it's barely a shift, as it turns out.

like they've been falling so long and so gently that they only notice once they've stopped, only to find themselves wrapped in each other.

when they announce it, something official and not just a whisper of _maybecouldwearewe?_ , it's to the surprise of no one apparently; the boys more surprised they hadn't sorted their shit out sooner.

harry's still the person who knows louis better than most (better than all if zayn hadn't seen him through the carnival of terrors which was high school), and still the boy who couldn't for the life of him settle into any one major ( _i want it all, lou_ ). he's just also the person who is willing to wrap his lips around louis' cock more nights than not (and whose breaths louis counts each night to drift off to sleep).

and louis is still chasing down a dream to make a difference; to feel like a superhero again. but it's finally starting to feel like something he's doing for the right reasons; not to satisfy the standards of the faceless many who demand so much and support so little. and every time he looks to harry, he remembers the child who could almost make louis believe he was powerful enough to fly.

***

"fuck. harry."

louis is pushed into his wardrobe, cheap wood bending under the force, but he barely notices, so distracted by _harry_ ; hands hiking up the back of his shirt, tongue licking hot and alcohol-sharp into his mouth, thigh nudging his legs apart and _grinding_ hard enough to completely scatter any train of thought louis had managed to keep up 'til then.

"bed," he manages to groan out, shoving harry away with whatever will-power he has left to not just rut against him until they both come in their pants like inexperienced teenagers. he strips off his t-shirt and jeans with little finesse and as much speed as his intoxicated state will allow him; his pants he removes slower, easing them over his hard-on as he lets himself drink in the sight of harry, already naked, crawling his way up the bed, rolling over and spreading himself bare. for louis.

he feels drunk. they've been out most of the night, all of them, and harry had driven him to knocking back more than one bourbon and coke he hadn't planned to drink, watching harry dance and let others, male and female alike, get into that space that should only be for louis, touches lingering and often and occasionally reciprocated. harry's eyes never left louis', an unspoken _if you don't like it, come take what's yours_. it's _that_ which drives louis to distraction; not the alcohol - only really enough to get him tipsy and lose a bit of his control - but _harry_. and now that he has him alone (it had only taken a hand on the small of harry's back and a barely audible ' _home'_ ), louis feels like he'd downed the whole bottle of jim beam. he just- needs a moment.

once he climbs onto the bed, louis trails a reverential path up the length of harry's body, who shudders in tangible anticipation as he works past harry's ankles, calves, the inside of his thighs and the tip of his cock - it's the only time harry makes a noise, but louis quickly continues on - abs, ribs, sternum; a delicate lick tracing the outline of his collarbone and a long, surprisingly chaste press of lips to harry's shoulder.

when he reaches harry's face, his own creases into an uninhibited smile and he ducks down to join their lips, still a little in awe after all this time that this is his. harry laughs breathlessly when louis pulls back.

"hi."

"hi, yourself," louis replies, grinding his hips down so their cocks rub against each other, caught between their bodies.

they fall into a practiced pattern of limbs and fingers and slick tight heat, and louis' never had this with someone before; a silent understanding of when and where and _there_ that somehow makes everything _better_ rather than _predictable_.

when he pushes in past harry's rim, the moan he presses into harry's skin - into the side of his knee, hooked over louis' shoulder - is an exhalation of all the pent-up energy and emotion he doesn't quite know how to describe.

and as he thrusts deep inside, louis tries to focus on making this as good for harry as it is for him; he lets a litany fall from his lips, of _jesus,_ fuck _, harry you're beautiful, absolutely gorgeous, look so good underneath me, with my cock inside you; i'd give you everything, you know?_ and he would, because harry deserves it all and louis can start by making him come hard enough that he sees the stars louis wishes he could give him.

louis comes to the sound of harry chanting his name like a prayer, bearing down on louis' cock even as he shakes with oversensitivity.

"happy birthday, harry."

"love you, lou."

"love you, too."

afterwards, they lie curled around each other, and louis doesn't want anything to change from this moment.

***

but time stops for no one.

it moves forward, stubborn but sure; things change, just as surely.

louis and harry have fallen, but now they grow up, grow together.

time passes and they have moved in together. a small place, but lighter, brighter, warmer than the place they shared with the lads for those years; a two-bed, third floor place not all that far from the last, and zayn and liam come back and stay every month or two for the weekend (a fortnight each summer when they can get the time off work, and louis and harry then return the favour; a full month spent together, just like the old days).

harry's still at uni, struggling towards a culmination of all his points into a single degree, rather than the true scattering of two dozen papers or more, papers which catch his eyes and make them light up with interest.

he performs in bars and clubs too, small gigs which don't carry much weight with anyone, but which make harry happy; louis can tell. he can see it in the way that his eyes fall shut and the right corner of his lips turn up as he sings, fingers moving with grace harry rarely possesses over the strings of his guitar.

louis remembers a tiny boy with earnest green eyes, and more hair than head, begging his mother to let him learn to play an instrument. louis thinks anne made him learn piano in the end, but something about the warm melody of the guitar suits harry so much better. louis thinks of dreams, and how harry's are destined to come true.

dreams, he's come to realise, aren't always as simple as wishing for them, though. sometimes, not even trying your hardest can force them to tumble down into your lap.

louis graduated some time ago now, but it turns out that, after the exams comes the hard part. and, somehow, after failed interview after failed interview (and the successful interview which was so close to sexual harassment that louis ended up switching phone numbers rather than respond to the offer), louis has come to wind up at prudent management. never had louis imagined that saving the world would come from the inside of a p.r. company; so far, he has not been proved wrong.

it's not a perfect job - it's not even a particularly stimulating job, and some nights louis comes home feeling dirty (until he sees harry, and his smile and all his faith in louis washes everything else away), but it pays the bills and louis would rather put up with catch-filled contracts and media scandals than force harry to pick up hours in a supermarket or fast-food chain and put down his music, just to get by. louis likes to think that things will fall into place, in time.

and for now, things are good.

they speak of the future, in fits and starts; half plans and distant maybes. of a house, maybe a dog (' _who would play with it, haz? dogs need time and love.' 'we have love, lou; we can make time. and im sure we can find someone to play with him; maybe someone small, with feathery brown hair and a grin you just know leads to trouble - one that matches his dad's'_ ). pale lines on fourth fingers from where the sun can no longer touch.

nothing set in stone, nothing permanent.

not yet.

for they are young, and there will be time tomorrow.

(for they are young, and can't yet see time's end; they presume this means it's infinite)

***

time stops for no one.

this time, when louis pauses for breath, there is falling apart.

when did the change happen? what was the cause? he can see where they came from, but for the first time, he's not sure where they're headed.

is it too late to put on the breaks, or are they going into freefall?

it's not that he's dissatisfied with his life. except- it kind of is.

louis is still at prudent, four years almost, and he never thought he'd last this long. never thought he'd have the chance (time) to move up the ranks. his pay has increased, but it really just means that now _he’s_ the one who gets to trap the new into contracts which benefit the company, not the client, and to clean up the messes their clients would prefer the world never knew they made. it means more hours, less time; more conflict, less morality. the world still needs a hero, but god knows it isn't louis.

and harry; louis' darling harry. he's now everyone's darling harry - or so they'd like to think.

he signed a huge contract the summer he graduated (a bloody anthropology major of all things), seemingly out of the blue; someone who knew someone who knew a big-wig at a label was at one of his gigs and saw something he liked.

harry's worked his arse off, writing (and standing his ground on keeping his own words for his music; _integrity,_ he calls it) and recording and, later, touring and press and now harry has a p.r. team all of his own. louis knows his back door knowledge has kept harry out of the worst the administration of celebrity and infamy has to offer; he's kept more of his rights than most, but still. although harry's life sacrifices have come with much greater benefits than louis' ever has.

they have their house; even bigger than they had imagined in their young days ( _and was it really so long ago that louis has already become nostalgic for time past?_ ). it's comfortable and it's tasteful and for the most part it's home.

but.

there's no dog, no small child running the halls. it's rare for one, let alone both, of them to be there for more than the briefest of meals and to sleep; even staying overnight together is no longer guaranteed for long stretches. there is no space in their lives, in their house full of empty rooms, for extras; they can barely take care of themselves.

louis loves harry still; knows in his man's eyes and touch and the words which echo out the radiowaves when louis can't see him that harry loves him too.

it's just a little hard to keep a note of resentment out of louis' lines during this chapter. when louis has fought for so much ( _he's so tired;_ _he must have fought, mustn't he?_ ), and has so little to show for it.

when harry has the world, all that he deserves and louis ever wished for him, handed to him on a plate (history twists itself, turns the half-truth to fact).

they still have happiness; louis clings to it - the birthdays, surrounded by friends and family and each other (they have a pact - birthdays are sacred, no matter what); saturday mornings in soft-filtered light and skin-warmed sheets; zayn and liam's wedding (hands clasped tightly at their sides, and louis doesn't look at the space on harry's finger he had once- _still_ imagines sliding his own ring onto). doesn't think about how those moments are becoming few and farther between.

***

"i love you."

a pause.

(time wasted)

"i love you, too."

***

***

when we reach the ragged threads, almost frayed to splitting, we look around us and realise we don't know how we got here. to this place where, suddenly, there's barely anything left; no space, no time for us.

we try to turn back, to find the place where things were good, were anything better than this.

and we rush quickly past them in the fear that everything may fall away and take us too, gone before we can reach the end

(the end of what?  the string, the story, time itself?)

most times we make it to sturdier ground before the path gives way before us.

most times.

***

***

louis sees him in a bar in the dead of winter.

louis is twenty-nine, harry twenty-seven.

it's been nearly two years since louis has seen his face - outside of the gossip rags, the internet allowing him to seep through even when louis wished he wouldn't (and then drank him in greedy, regardless).

it's just- it's been a long day, and louis could really just do with a cold drink and to sit alone in the corner of the pub. he doesn't even notice harry until he stands up and takes the mic on the small, blue-lit stage.

he shouldn't have ever forgotten, _really_ , that this is one of their old haunts; one of the places they would come on a friday or saturday night, share a few drinks with the boys, and harry would get up and play a set; the karaoke equipment pushed aside for half an hour while he fell into that place in his mind that looked like somewhere louis would like to follow him to.

louis supposes that’s why he's here now, of all places; because the bar staff still know him after all these years, remember the little shit and his rag-tag group of mates _before_ said shit made it big. they aren't about to call in the paps or make a big deal of his being here tonight.

tonight harry isn't doing his own music, the karaoke prompter still front and centre ( _'i don't think i could ever get sick of my words, you know; but sometimes others say it so much better'_ ). it's probably less likely to make a scene anyway.

the opening chords begin to play and louis is thirteen and emotional over something he doesn't yet understand; seventeen and pretending he does; twenty-two and listening to his boyfriend sing the same song that has kept appearing in his life for the past ten years. twenty-nine and maybe finally understanding.

_we'll do it all. everything. on our own._

louis tries, he does.

he tries not to watch, not to drag himself back to a time when louis would be poking faces and trying to make harry laugh as he jokingly waves his cell phone in the air to harry's music. not to remember how harry's face used to crack, almost but not quite breaking his concentration; his eyes never faltering from louis'.

louis looks.

harry's staring like he never stopped.

_we don't need anything, or anyone._

they'd told themselves that, louis thinks. they'd been wrong.

he and harry had been too much to each other; they were never completely isolated, but they created a bubble around themselves. it felt right at the time, but it only meant that they were left unprotected and defenceless when they, inevitably it seemed, turned on each other; no one to lash out at in frustration but the only other person there.

problem was, when even that was gone, louis truly was alone, it felt.

and while he stares up at the man on stage - watching harry watching louis - he can't not admit it. he's still alone. and he is _so_ lonely.

and when harry comes back down (to a louder applause than the usual polite claps and odd cheer from the performer's friends or family who'd forced them up there) - barely pausing to give his mates a tight smile and a squeeze to a shoulder before walking a straight line to cover the metres and miles between them - louis knows he's never really had an option when it comes to harry.

_i don't quite know how to say how i feel._

i've missed you, louis thinks.

where've you been? his heart begs.

i love you, louis doesn't say.

"come with me?" he asks.

harry nods.

_(they're not enough)_

they catch a cab back to louis' place.

louis is grateful for small mercies; such as harry's fame no longer being so all encompassing that they're hounded from a to b. it would only have made this stranger than this already is; even though it used to be par for the course not that long ago. it would have left irremovable evidence of whatever this is, and louis is just superstitious enough to not want to examine it too closely just yet.

they don't say much.

he wants to ask harry how he's been, whether he saw louis _before_ he stood to sing tonight, if he'd picked the old snow patrol track at random or- louis wants to ask whether he remembered other nights like this; whether this is just for that memory, or if he intends to make more.

at some stage, harry's hand twitches enough that his outer two fingers overlap with louis'. they press down with just enough pressure to be intentional. he leaves them there.

_forget what we're told. before we get too old._

when they walk through the door of louis' apartment, it's like a jolt of energy is shocked through harry, and it's all louis can do to just keep up.

harry is on him like a summer storm; heat and power, sucking the oxygen from the air and booming thunder (brilliant lightning).

it feels like making up for lost time (can't turn back).

and louis wants; wants everything and so much more. so he leans into every touch and pulls harry closer, ever closer, nudging them towards the sofa, because god knows they won't make it to the bedroom.

as they fall onto the cushions, the oversized digital clock on the wall blinks over to a new day.

_let's waste time._

it's urgent, and it's desperate; the way they tug at each other's clothing, removing the offending objects to get at skin kept hidden from them for far too long.

harry nips at louis' jaw, his throat, his shoulder; he sucks his marks into louis' skin and it's staking a claim, or maybe just reclaiming old territory. louis doesn't mind, he'll take either ( _all_ ) and scrapes blunt nails down harry's shoulder blades, curving down his spine, ensuring his own imprinted possession is left as a reminder.

their lips tangle messy and without finesse, relearning and remembering each other's touch, fingers tracing dips and valleys while their tongues search out that somehow unique taste of the other until they slowly but surely replace it with their own.

when harry manages to shove his pants down - thick and heavy cock smearing pre-come between them while he jostles with his feet to toe his clothes the rest of the way off - louis gropes a hand over harry's arse to pull their hips flush and uses their close proximity to flip them over on the blessedly wide sofa.

harry gasps a little when louis does so, and he still sounds as surprised as he did the first time louis had managed the manoeuvre on that tiny settee nine years ago.

_i need your grace to remind me to find my own._

and louis' above harry now, and when harry opens his eyes, green even in the low light, just as bright and wondering as they'd ever been- well. he's still the most beautiful thing louis' ever seen.

his hair is a little shorter now; still an untamed mess, but not to the same extreme. if he looks closely, louis can start to see the makings of laughter lines etching into the corners of his eyes. it's good he's laughing, louis tells himself.

but he's still his harry, with his unbidden and indescribable grace which louis had always envied, just a little.

louis ducks down to connect them by the mouth, biting gently on harry's lower lip as he drops the rest of his body down so they're connected everywhere else too; lips to hips, legs intertwined indeterminably.

and he wonders whether harry sees the same louis staring back at him. whether it's the one harry fell in love with or the one he left (or if they've always been the same and it just took harry that long to realise).

there's still that old feeling though, the one that makes louis feel as though harry can see right through him, glass and paper. the one that makes louis look down at himself and- it's not that harry makes him feel as though he should be better than he is; it's that louis looks down and for once he doesn't lie to himself, explain away reasons for not having _finally_ left the job that seems to be sucking his life away (far away from him).

he makes louis _want_ to be better.

_all that i am. all that i ever was._

and harry works a hand between them, wrapping his fist around louis' cock and _this_. the way harry grips from the base and makes strong, firm pumps to bring louis off just the way he always has. when he twists suddenly on the upstroke to palm over the head and run his thumb down louis' slit, it's not unexpected, but louis _gasps_.

the familiarity is overwhelming and it's something which louis just hasn't had with any of the other men he's fucked in the past. it's what's bringing him close so quickly, faster than since- well since the early days with harry; when they were both young and still learning about the true meaning of stamina, and every touch was a raging burn of desire which ran straight to louis' dick.

everything has changed and yet it's all exactly the same. like time rewound.

neither of them are equipped to make this laugh; harry's breathing heavily in louis' ear where he's dropped his head onto harry's chest to look down between them at harry's hand working him over, and harry's barely been touched.

louis doesn't really want to move, would quite happily let them both just grind against each other to distraction, to come hot between them, mixing and cooling against their torsos until they can regain the energy to clean themselves up.

but fuck does louis want to be inside harry again.

it's not drawn out, the way they would when they had nothing but time stretching before them.

louis finds two foil packets in harry's wallet, pulled from his jeans (tries and fails not to feel jealous that harry maintains the same practices he did when they were only there for 'unexpected' needs while they were out). he opens harry up with one and then two slick fingers in quick succession, until harry's arching off the sofa and begging _fuck it, i'll be fine, just- lou_. and who is louis to deny harry when he's red-faced and his body’s sheened with sweat.

when he pushes in, harry is almost too tight, pressure on louis' cock that leaves him struggling to not come before he really even gets started.

he wants to believe it's just the sex, that he perhaps hasn't had with as much regularity as he would've liked lately.

but he knows it's more to do with the man whose fingertips are digging into louis' shoulders, holding on like a lifeline as louis bottoms out inside him.

it's harry.

_here in your perfect eyes; they're all i can see._

true to form, neither last long once louis begins thrusting, long and deep and setting as fast a rhythm as they can handle once they can both bear louis moving.

it's with harry's name on his lips that louis comes first, unable to hold off any longer as harry moans beneath him, rocking his hips to meet the last of louis' increasingly erratic thrusts.

still coming down from the moment - louis will admit he's not the most coordinated he's ever been - but he manages to pull out of harry and scoot back enough that he can bat harry's hand away from his still hard cock and sink his mouth down over it. it's less skill and more sheer force of will forming louis' blowjob technique right now, but harry's so gone at this point that it barely takes hollowing his cheeks, a few well-placed swirls of louis' tongue, and a finger sliding in to crook at _just_ the right spot- and harry's coming down louis' throat (louis almost convinces himself he hears a broken _fuck, i miss you, lou_ as he strokes harry through the last of his orgasm).

_just know that these things will never change for us at all._

they lie in silence for a few long minutes, and louis pretends that time has faded away to just the two of them.

he's drowsy, and harry's breaths are beginning to even out into a familiar pattern of sleep, but louis knows that this sofa is a shocker for falling asleep on. as comfy as it feels right now, come morning they'll both have cricked necks and sore backs.

he pokes harry lightly.

"c'mon, you don't want to go to sleep here." harry wriggles away from louis' prodding fingers, eyebrows furrowing as he mewls in protest, "c'mon, haz."

he opens his eyes to focus on louis, and maybe it's affectionate concern he finds in louis' face, or maybe it's something else, but he lets himself be pulled to standing.

louis wants to drag him to bed; to tuck harry into his bed with the blankets pulled up to his chin, and maybe wake up next to him in the morning.

but he also hasn't asked harry what tonight was supposed to be; and louis doesn't know if he could handle falling asleep next to harry if he’s only going to wake in the morning to an empty bed and no explanation. he feels as though he should give harry the opportunity for an out.

"do you need to be heading home?" louis asks, trying to express in his eyes how much he wants the answer to be no. "anyone waiting up for you?"

then again; louis has never been known for his tact.

"i- what?" harry gets out, voice loud in the quiet of the room, "is that what you think i'd-"

"harry, no," louis tries, realising how it must sound, "i-"

"fuck you," harry's hand is no longer connected to louis', and the pale expanse of skin is being rapidly covered by hastily thrown on clothes. louis wants it to stop, to pause and rewind, but he can't find the words. why can he never find the words?

harry only spares him one last glance before the door shuts behind him.

"happy _fucking_ birthday, louis."

_would you lie with me and just forget the world?_

***

"come on tour with me."

"i can't."

"why not, lou? what's stopping you?"

"um, my _job_ , maybe?"

"you _hate_ that job, louis!" harry's arms are thrown wide in front of him, behaving as though he's providing some kind of unprecedented revelation for louis, "you can't stand it, and i never see you anymore. you should have left years ago!"

"you think i don't know that, harry? that i wouldn't love to just up and leave one day? i'm not just a cashier in a supermarket; i can't just tell them to go fuck themselves!"

"why _not_?"

"jesus, haz," and louis doesn't understand how harry can be so blind, or if he's purposefully missing how hard this is hurting him. "i don't know if you realise this, but not everyone gets handed their life's dreams on a golden platter. some of us has to break our fucking backs for it, and even then we wind up with a job which wouldn't have made the top fifty of teenage-me's dream jobs. and i can't leave just because it's not my favourite place to be, because there's no reason why i'd get anything better somewhere else."

"but it doesn't have to _be_ that way. okay, so maybe i got it easier than most, and _sorry i like what i do_. but you know what that means?"

louis shakes his head almost imperceptibly, resisting the urge to hurt something.

"it means that i have _money_ , it means that i have been lucky enough to be _able_ to support the people i care about.” he pauses. “that means you, stupid."

and normally the look harry throws him, more fond exasperation than anger anymore, would be enough to calm louis down. tonight, not quite.

"i can't."

"can't or won't?"

"won't let you look after me like i can't handle myself without you."

louis can't explain himself, can't find words when it counts, never has. but he means it; he can't let harry do this for him and what this means.

"i love you. and i don't want to parade you around or keep you locked up just for me. i want my boyfriend to be with me while i'm away from home for _eight months_. and i want to give him the opportunity to find something he loves doing as much as i do, as much as i love him."

"i can't."

harry's eyes look sad, and it's a little bit like the worst thing louis' ever done - putting that look there.

"i'm meeting niall for drinks. i'll see you later."

(louis doesn't go on tour. when harry comes home, he's single)

***

sometimes.

sometimes, louis thinks, everyone reaches breaking point.

sometimes, louis thinks, you can't make the leap to the next start.

time has dragged on for so long; grey and crushing and slow ( _whatever happened to breakneck and careless?_ louis can't find it anymore).

and now louis thinks he can finally see the home stretch.

he hasn't seen harry in six months, since that day on the street; january, hot tea, cold wind, peacoat.

louis is thirty-eight when he closes his eyes.

harry - bright eyes, brown curls, too-big grin - is what he sees on the inside of his eyelids before everything goes black

***

***

time is linear.

there is a beginning.

there is an end.

time is not an especially benevolent force. neither is it intentionally cruel.

everything is all but cast when we take our first step onto the tightrope.

however - above all - time is anything but predictable, no matter what may be said to the contrary about her.

there are a lot of twists in the string before we reach the end.

and sometimes we read the truth in those knots which brush just out of reach from further down the path;  manage to grasp hold of that message flitting in the back reaches of our consciousness.

it's called _hope_.

***

***

louis opens his eyes and everything is far too harsh and white.

but there are hands clasping his, and when he can blink past fluorescent blindness, there's zayn ( _and where's liam, then? he can't be far_ , some part of louis' brain fuzzily wonders) standing to smile at him through- is zayn _crying_?

shit.

"you're a fucking bastard, you know that?" zayn tells him as he leans in to give him a hug, whispering in his ear when he's close enough, "you can't _do_ shit like that, lou."

and over zayn's shoulder, sitting in a hard plastic chair with his phone grasped between white-knuckled hands-

"harry?"

zayn pulls away and looks between the two of them, assessing.

"liam told him. he- harry rung your phone when we were, um, when we were waiting for the ambulance to arrive."

it's not the answer louis was expecting (he didn't know what he was expecting, really), and he'd question further but-

"i'm so tired, zayn."

"i know, lou," zayn strokes the hair off of louis' forehead and rubs circles into the skin at his temple, "the doctor's said you'd be like this for a while. you can go to sleep again, we'll still be here; just- if you can hold on for just a little bit- liam and ni are getting coffees down the hall..."

"hmm," louis tries, mind still so heavy, but feeling warmer, secure with the knowledge his friends are around him. "keep talkin’ t’me."

"did you know," it's harry who speaks this time, "i saw you last tuesday? you were coming out of that over-priced coffee shop, where the owner loves you and always gives you free muffins."

louis wants to correct him, say it was sold years ago, and louis is just too set in his ways to make the change to somewhere new, but it's too much effort.

"and part of me wanted to call out, to say hello," harry continues, "but i got stuck at the traffic lights waiting to cross, and _then_ a bus got held up half-way on the intersection, and by the time it'd passed i'd- i'd lost you."

"'lwayzneww i hat'd tchoozays..." louis mutters, more than half asleep.

he's not really sure if he hears harry say the words or not, but he thinks there's one more thing before his eyes flutter asleep.

"don't leave me again, lou. just- stay?"

_'kay_ , louis thinks, _i can do that_.

louis dreams of superheroes.

***

***

everything will be ok in the end.  if its not ok, its not the end.

***

***

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading.
> 
> this finishes in a kind of weird spot, but it felt like the right place - i have my own version in my head of how everything plays out, but i wanted to leave it to you all to kind of decide what would happen from here on. (EDIT: my ending has been requested, so if you want to know my head canon then check the comments :) )
> 
> also. the last line is a quote which my folder had recorded as 'author unknown', but someone has since told me that our friend mr google tells us it was john lennon. so. there's that.
> 
> anyway, ta, and let me know what you think below.
> 
> xx


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